


Softer

by thrilloffirstlove



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, aftermath of 3x06, and ian actually getting to talk to people about it, rape/non-con discussed, supportive!fiona
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 02:32:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18085736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrilloffirstlove/pseuds/thrilloffirstlove
Summary: Ian needs to talk about it. He goes to Fiona, and then to Mickey.Aftermath of 3x06.





	Softer

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't seen the whole show, so I'm not sure the characterization is as accurate as I want it to be, but I just watched 3x06 and this is me processing it. I just want this to be addressed, and Ian and Mickey to be allowed to talk about the situation. I've been assured neither of those things happen. 
> 
> This is the first fic I've written in forever so go easy on me haha.
> 
> Basically: Ian gets to talk to people about what happened.

They didn’t talk about it.

They didn’t talk about it, and it ate away at Ian’s insides. Screamed at him at night, in the darkness of his blankets. Constantly hitched a ride on Ian’s shoulder and whispered in his ear, reminded him of what had happened.

What had happened to Mickey.

They couldn’t talk about it. Wouldn’t, Ian knew that. Knew that Mickey would never admit if he felt vulnerable, or if he felt really anything at all. It became more painful not to talk about it, and when he couldn’t take it anymore, Ian ended up on Fiona’s bed, waiting for her to return home.

“What the hell are you doing in my bed?”

As she said it, Ian grinned despite the dark cloud in his brain.

“Gotta talk to you about something. Well—want to.” Even as he spoke, he felt bad for asking. For taking time that she could be sleeping, or caring for the kids, or fucking Jimmy, or Steve, or whatever his name was today.

“Oh,” Fiona sighed, her hand landing on Ian’s shoulder and running down his arm, in what appeared to be an attempt at a comforting motion. “Alright. What is it?”

“You know, never—” He almost dismissed it. Let her sleep, left her alone.

His chest hurt, and he cut his words short.

“I don’t know how to tell you,” his words came out mumbled, the only way he could convince them to leave his mouth.

“If it’s that you’re gay, you already told me, like, forever ago.”

“No,” he hastened, frown deepening. “No, not that. Not—similar. But not that.”

The atmosphere of the room changed. Her worry dripped off of her, all too obvious and sudden. At once, it felt as though they were treading on eggshells.

Again, he almost said forget it.

And then he thought about Mickey.

Pictured his face.

And turned back to Fiona. “It’s about Mickey.”

“Did that son of a bitch do something? I’m gonna—”

He reached over, yanked her back down onto the bed. “No! He didn’t do anything. His um.” Ian swallowed, not sure how to say it. “His dad.”

Again, Fiona rose to storm out of the room. “He hurt you? I’ll kill him then. That—”

“Fiona!” He shouted, cutting though her words. He tugged her back onto the bed next to him. “Not me. Mickey.”

Her eyes softened, more concern than anger now, and Ian felt irritation rise in his chest at that. She should be angry. That motherfucker should be dead for what he did.

“He hurt Mickey? You know, their family is fond of violence, that’s not exactly new news, Ian.”

Ian was rambling then, desperate to get his point across, to communicate this injustice to her. “He made someone else do it. While I—he made a hooker come.” Saliva bunched up in his throat, leaving him choking for air. Nearly shaking.

Fiona didn’t care about who he was, he knew that. Knew she wouldn’t judge him. But it still hurt to say it out loud, after what he had been forced to watch. After what Mickey had been forced to do.

“A hooker? Why—”

“He made her fuck him.” The words all came out at once, too-loud, and sounding much too vulnerable. “He—she raped him. Because of his son of a bitch father who couldn’t handle the fact that he likes it in the ass. Fucking raped him, Fiona.”

“You saw it?”

Ian turned his head away from her, no longer having any desire to look her in the eye. “He made me fucking watch.”

“Jesus Christ, Ian.” At that, she looked truly lost for words, void of anything to say. She kept trying, started a word, or a sentence, but then cut it off just as quickly. “Listen, tell him to come over. He can’t stay there. We’ll…we’ll figure something out, but for now, he can stay.”

“I will.” He hesitated, the memory still itching, writhing around in his brain. “Fiona, I don’t know what to do. There’s no way he’s okay. I’m not okay and she didn’t even touch me, so there’s no way he’s fine.”

“Talk to him.” Her answer came immediately, spoken more softly. “He might not want to—hell, Mickey? He won’t want to. But if you can, that’s the most important thing you can do.”

“I just…” And, hell, if he was going to spill his soul to Fiona tonight, he might as well admit everything, every weak thought that had ever crossed his brain. “I forget, sometimes. That people hate me, hate Mickey. Not forget but—we were going to have a…fuck it’s so stupid. A fucking sleepover or whatever. It felt—nice. Safe. And then—” he cut off, not knowing what else to say, or if there was anything else to say.

Fiona sighed, and pulled him in by his shoulder, keeping in a tight half-hug. “Do you need to talk to someone, y’know, a professional? We could probably scrape together the money for a couple of sessions, if you need them.”

“No. No, that won’t—it’ll be okay.” He couldn’t dream of spending money like that, on some washed up shrink to listen to his problems and not offer any solutions to calm down his fucked-up emotions. “You’re all I need, Fi. You and Mickey.”

“Alright.” She squeezed his shoulders for a moment, then let go. “Listen, we’re not letting this go. If you need to talk about it, tell me. But for now, go get Mickey. Keep him in your room just make sure Carl has on headphones or something.”

“We’re not gonna—”

“Right.” She cut him off, even as he protested. “Headphones for Carl. We’ll figure out what to do next tomorrow. Okay?”

“Yeah.” His lips spread into something resembling a smile, or at least something that looked like it wanted to be a smile. “Thanks, Fi. I really appreciate it.”

They exchanged one last hug, and Ian quickly dabbed away the moisture in his eyes with his sleeve and set off towards the door in a purposeful motion.

He had to get Mickey.

 

-

 

“I don’t want to fucking talk about it!”

“I know!” Ian’s voice rose with his words, cracking at every other syllable. “You don’t have to right now. But someday.”

“Been through worse.” So flippant, and yet Mickey was facing away from him, his eyes glued to the wall opposite Ian.

“I know. I fucking hate that. We don’t have to talk right now.”

Mickey rolled his eyes at that. “Fucking good.”

“Are you,” because, apparently, he couldn’t shut up, Ian continued, “are you okay? Fuck, that’s stupid. Of course fucking not.”

“Ian.” Mickey turned to face him, expression uncharacteristically gentle. “I’m not about to fall apart. I fucking knew if my dad ever found out something like this would happen.”

Ian nodded, badly concealing a tear trailing down his cheek. Mickey saw it, shook his head.

“Someday,” he said, voice monotone, but quiet, “we’ll talk. I just can’t right now, okay? I don’t think I’ve even processed it yet.”

“Alright,” Ian did his best to conjure a smile. “I can work with that. Just—don’t let it get too bad, okay?”

“Yeah.” He paused, then: “Now, Gallagher, you gonna fuck me or what? I wasn’t aware this was a girl’s slumber party or some shit.”

That did coax out a smile. “Yeah,” he said, hands already going to the edge of Mickey’s shirt. “’Cause you’re mine. No Russian whore is allowed to have you.”

He had a distinct feeling that he was masking the pain through the thrill of Mickey’s skin, the way he touched Ian, but he didn’t even care in that moment. Mickey needed this, that much was clear, and Ian managed to get him to promise to talk about it. When he’s ready. It felt like disastrous coping, like a band-aid over a bullet hole, but he couldn’t convince himself to pull away.

Ian planted a playful kiss on Mickey’s mouth. For a moment, he thought he would get angry, storm off, but Carl was asleep and there was no one but them in the dark under the covers, so Mickey let him. It was still new, the kissing, and it was like a present reserved for special occasions.

Mickey would never admit to “making love,” Ian knew that. It was sex, like it always was. Skin against skin, muffled groans and noises pressed into the pillow.

Somehow, though, it felt different.

Softer.


End file.
